


King and Lionheart

by praeeunt



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: College of Winterhold - Freeform, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Disabled Character, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Multi, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Violence, muuuuuuuch later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4933147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/praeeunt/pseuds/praeeunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The daughter of a Redoran councillor has gone missing. Political unease is brewing in the west. A blind woman has been cursed by the gods with the weight of the world, and in the centre of it all is an insomniac robbed of his identity and a skooma addict still trying to forget the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you give up on this for lack of in-game accuracy, I am AWARE that Mathieu is not a Dunmer name and you will discover why he has such a name later on. Besides that, please enjoy! Further notes are at the bottom.

It didn’t take long for his blood to start feeling sticky and thick, clotting in the capillary clusters of his extremities and making them buzz. It took even less time for his vision to plunge, and there was some magnificent colour he couldn’t quite remember the name of bleeding into his sight until it was saturated in a glorious, foamy wine. He started to feel sleepy, like he was being cradled and carried by the numbing heat of Red Mountain’s molten core, before his hearing lost all focus and he found his head rolling over his neck in time with the even, steady drumming in his chest.

The room started to bulge.

Through heavy, lidded eyes he watched as shapes and figures that seemed familiar swirled like a nest of wriggling kwama larvae and the dim source of light that rocked to and fro above him spilled out and bathed the space in a flickering, golden glow. He tugged his lips behind his molars in an involuntary grin and vaguely thought that he could taste metal, but his body responded without him realizing and that brilliant pipe was pressed between his lips again, until all he could taste was purple.

Smoke stung his eyes, and he closed them, embracing the blackness that still seemed so vivid. He could see stars and aurora borealis and tendrils of mist that curled and swayed in the light. They swept tangibly over his skin and he pressed back into the cushions, letting them swallow him up, letting it fill up his lungs so he could feel like he was floating, because he didn’t want to exist anymore. He lay there suspended, both weightless and dense, but though his head was swimming between moons his own bodily mass tethered him thickly to the Mundus. 

Suddenly he felt tired, content to allow his hot and tingling body to sleep. He breathed out heavily and leaned back until it was comfortable, but he was too heavy, he was far too heavy, and he just kept on falling and falling until he was rolling backwards over and over and his vision began to spin. He tried to cry out but his voice was little more than a throbbing, muffled groan, and the howling winds snatched it before it could be heard.

Hands pulled at him and he lurched to a stop, panting and damp. They tugged at his clothes and clamped over his mouth and raked sharp nails down his back until he could feel blood. He leaked out of himself slowly like a barrel filled with holes, but he found that he didn’t mind; as his skin began to sag and sink he used the remaining strength in his body to drag the flat of his tongue over the hand at his mouth. From everywhere at once he heard an effeminate giggle, and then she was kissing him, her lips soft and warm and tasting of sujamma. Her life force flooded him until he felt full again, but he knew that when she pulled away he would deflate until he was just skin. And yet at the base of his skull it still rang, and he could still hear the _rolling of trebuchets, the pounding of feet against ground as Altmeri troops marched towards their goal, the clashing of swords, the whistle of an arrow, the squelch of metal against flesh, the hoarse gasping as someone drew their final -_

 Sleep claimed him quickly, after that.  

* * *

 “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.”

She was hyper aware of everything. Leaves rustling in the wind, distant birdsong, the intense sun beating down upon her face.

“It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric.”

Ralof’s voice was deep and hoarse, dry from lack of drink. Her mind was too muddled to realize that her own throat felt the same.

“Ralof of Riverwood.”

She found herself instinctively focusing on the crunching of loose stone beneath feet.

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

“No,” he said, voice high and panicky, “I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!”

She didn’t realize he was running until she heard someone – a woman, her voice clear and strong – call out, “Halt!”

“You’re not going to kill me!” he shouted from a distance, defiant.

“Archers!”

The air was whipped and she heard an abrupt yell, but it was cut short.

_Delusional._

“Anybody else feel like running?”

Rope rubbed her wrists raw, there was a bead of sweat rolling down her neck, the fibres of her sackcloth rag scratched against her skin –

“Wait. You there. Step forward.”

_Her matted hair was clinging to her shoulders, stones dug into the soles of her feet through the wraps, blood trickled down the inside of her thigh, her dry tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth, fragrant air brushed against the incisions in her flesh -_

“She’s blind, soldier,” said the woman, and she drew a sharp breath. “Grab her.”

“But Captain,” he said, “she’s not on the list.”

“Forget the list. She goes to the block.”

 _Block?_ Her muscles seized up.

A large, rough hand took her by the arm and with a yelp she found her feet moving beneath her, her body following his lead against her will. “I’m sorry,” he murmured next to her ear, his breath hot against her skin. “It’ll be over soon.”

Her heartbeat quickened and her breath started dragging at her chest. She suddenly felt dizzy. “Please,” she heard herself beg, “please, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Her cry was met with silence and they stopped, an imprint of his hand burning on her skin like a brand. A sob erupted from her throat, and all of a sudden everything just collapsed – the naivety and the faith and the hope that were walled so precariously around her crumbled, and she felt like the Void, sucking everything she'd ever known and loved into a bottomless pit.

“Please,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice broken and high, “you can't do this.”

The world carried on moving around her until her knees gave way, and she crumpled to the ground in a heap of messy, desperate breathing. She might as well have already been dead, for all time seemed to care, but nature was cruel and she could still hear the voices of those around her, the voices of those who would wake up in the morning. There was a priest, a general making his final boast, the distant screech of an eagle over the mountains. She could hear them but they did nothing; they existed separately to her, pressed silently against her eardrums, and she could not react. All she could think about was how fleetingly each moment was passing.

“I said, next prisoner!”

The man touched her shoulder and pulled her up, his voice gentle as he moved his hand down to the small of her back and guided her forwards. “To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy.”

She did her best to nod, but her movements were still broken by erratic hiccups. She had to swallow down bile when she tripped over something solid and fleshy and realized that it was the previous victim, his corpse still warm against her skin.

The soldier eased her into a kneeling position and murmured an instruction to lower her head. She could tell he was doing his best to make it as easy as possible for her, to show her a final kindness, but it was futile; a boot slammed into her back and she lurched forwards until her throat collided with the wood, and the air was knocked out of her in a single blow. Winded and writhing like a fish out of water, she choked out the remaining contents of her stomach onto the other side and knelt there, gasping for a breath she didn't need. Her instinct was to clutch her stomach but her bound hands kept her from doing so. Every muscle in her body started to shake from exhaustion. The harsh stones pressed into her bare kneecaps and made them bleed.

Over the mountains, the eagle screeched again.

She heard a grunt as the headsman raised his axe; and everything fell into place. Hours seemed to pass in the time it took for the blade to swing. She felt an odd sense of serenity, of acceptance, because at least when you were dead you didn’t have to worry about dying. Her eyes fluttered shut and she stopped thinking completely, as if she was merely falling asleep. A few more seconds and she wouldn’t have to worry about -

The dream collapsed.

“Come on, kinsman, get up!” cried Ralof, grasping her shoulders and yanking her upright. As if breaking out of a trance the silence was cracked, and her surroundings gradually shifted back into focus until the noise in her skull was almost deafening. “The gods won't give us another chance!”

The eagle was still screeching but it vaguely occurred to her that she could feel heat, and screams pierced her ears from every which way. Dazedly she followed Ralof, but her shaking leg muscles only just managed to support her dead weight. Her head buzzed like it was on fire.

“ _Yol... Toor... Shul!_ ”

Beneath them the earth shook and she cried out as she stumbled forwards. If it weren’t for the strength of Ralof’s grip around her wrist it would’ve ended her; only seconds after he had pulled to safety did the ground behind them become consumed by flame.

She took gulps of cool air once they were inside a building. She was shaken down to her very core, those words, those _words_ still vibrating beneath her skin and rattling around her bones. Something deep and dark in the pit of her stomach was being tugged and had she not thrown up earlier she almost certainly would’ve done now.

It was impossible to try and process what was going on out there.

 _I’m alive,_ she thought. _By the Eight, I’m alive._

 

It was all she was capable of comprehending. Jórunn was alive, and for the first time ever in her life she was truly grateful for it.

* * *

Rayyndin awoke with a start.

Something white hot and piercing struck the back of his skull, and with a violent convulsion and a guttural moan he clamped his hands over his eyes until the pressure overwhelmed the pain. An image had imprinted itself in the blackness and flickered there, a reminder of how unready he was to face the world – the lights were too light and the darks were too dark, and everything was too real for the shadowy warmth of his sockets to have lost their appeal.

He clutched his aching stomach and sniggered happily to himself, the demanding void in his body satiated for the time being. There was a crawling sensation under his skin but though everything hurt he still felt this odd sense of bliss, like he was wrapped up in a blanket of calm. Nothing really made much sense but he didn’t mind, didn’t really think about it. As it was, his brain was still incapable of stringing words together in a coherent thought.

From out of nowhere his skin started to burn. Like the rising tide to the cliffsides the numbing cold inched sluggishly towards his brain, but once there it crashed against them with every ounce of force the ocean could muster. His spine was snapped into rigidity and he gasped out for a breath, his frozen lungs desperate to seize every mouthful of air they could find. He was drenched and cold, rocking stiffly back and forth as his body worked to regain its feeling, but he was awake enough now to notice the Khajiit before him holding a bucket and angry enough to want to punch him.

“What the _fuck_ , J'urabi?!”

J'urabi's whiskers twitched. Parts of his face were blurred and misshapen from where water still clung to Rayyndin’s lashes.

“There is not much time. You must listen to me.”

Rayyndin grit his jaw and moved to wipe his face, intending to give J’urabi the longest, driest stare he could muster. When his vision did clear, however, his priorities quickly shifted; there was something very, very wrong. The atmosphere in the skooma den was abnormally active for – judging by the shafts of sunlight trickling in through cracks in the ceiling – such an early time in the morning, and people were hastily stuffing things into boxes, crates and baskets in a manner that looked almost panicked.

A padlock unclicked and Rayyndin’s gaze fluttered over to the source of the sound, his lips slightly parted in a pregnant pause. He dragged his eyes back over to J’urabi’s and had to force his mouth to catch up with the words that burned in his mind. “What’s going on?”

His voice seemed to buzz.  He cleared his throat, hoping to rid himself of the affliction.

“Redoran guards are searching every building in Blacklight,” J’urabi explained. “There’s a missing person. A young woman.”

If he wasn’t awake before he certainly was now.

Rayyndin reached for his tunic and pulled it down over his head, his heart starting to hammer against his ribcage. “I suppose you haven’t been kidnapping any ladies recently?” he said flatly, a feeble attempt at a joke in the midst of all his alarm.

J’urabi practically snarled, getting abruptly to his feet and making a snatch for Rayyndin’s wrist. The Dunmer pulled it away, shooting him a glare as he did the same, although his knees shook significantly more than J’urabi’s.

“If it escaped your notice,” he spat in that thick, nasal accent, “this establishment is not particularly legal, _Nobleman Dutheri.”_

Rayyndin shifted uncomfortably and wrung his hands together, dropping his gaze low. The Khajiit continued in a hiss, his yellow eyes flickering dangerously beneath his hood.

“Woman or no woman, they are going to search every corner of this building and they can find neither our stocks nor you. So you either leave or you hide. It is your choice.”

“And where do you suggest I go?” he asked eventually, looking up.

“The cellar, naturally. There will be others down there to avoid arousing suspicion should they find it.”

He handed Rayyndin a cloak, a heavy old garment in a faded inky blue. He took it slowly, swallowing.

“But you must wear this. If they get down there I do not want them to see your face.”

“Thank you, J’urabi,” he mumbled.

“You are welcome, beloved greyskin,” was the slightly more amicable reply. “We will hold the pretence of a cornerclub up here. Worst case scenario they speak to you, in which case you are a patron and a traveller. Understood?”

Nodding Rayyndin slipped the cloak over his shoulders, moving over to where the Argonian Sheevara was holding up the trapdoor – the earlier source of the padlock – for the chain of people carrying crates. He followed.

“If you are caught, I will personally make the armour from your skin,” said J’urabi after him as he descended, his eyes glinting from up above. Rayyndin climbed down from the bottom rung and shot him a half-hearted glare, pulling the hood up over his head.

“Better not get caught then,” he said, watching as the final person clambered over the top and the trapdoor was shut definitively above their heads. Earth and ash crumbled to the ground from the impact, and the padlock clunked. He heard a rug being shifted into place.

 _And in the nick of time, too,_ he thought, listening as somebody pounded against a door. He glanced around at the other faces in the room, trying to gauge their expressions in the dim lighting. With a long sigh, he gave up attempting to communicate with them and took a seat in the far corner, head turned to the wall so as to avoid revealing himself. Beside him rose stacks of crates filled with skooma bottles and liquors. He glanced away.

“We’re looking for a Dunmer girl,” said a guard, young and arrogant by the sound of his muffled voice. Though nobody could see it, Rayyndin rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen one, would you?”

“You will have to be more specific,” said J’urabi, opening the door. “Cornerclubs in Morrowind tend to have quite a few of those passing through.”

Heavy footsteps followed and Rayyndin counted that there had to be at least three of them. Whoever this girl was, she must have been important. It didn’t take more than one of those mugheads to search a room.

“We’re going to have a look around,” said a different voice. It sounded tired, and the words it spoke had been repeated a great number of times. Rayyndin froze. “Any objections, please state now.”

“Not at all,” said J’urabi, and the business ensued.  Rayyndin found himself having to take deeper breaths to merely keep enough air inside him, but when above he heard a cleared throat he knew that even that wasn’t quiet enough. His mind was flooded with every worst case scenario. With each passing second they were getting worse and worse than the one J’urabi had described.

_What was Mathieu doing here?!_

And by the Three, who must this woman have been to warrant his cousin being in charge of operations? Mathieu was a diplomat, not a captain. It made absolutely no sense and Rayyndin needed answers, _unless_ –

No.

Rayyndin leaped from his chair and ran over to the ladder, pressing his long ear against the trapdoor. He was desperate, he _needed_ to know, he needed to be sure, lest he jump out of here and search for her himself. He couldn’t lose another. Not again.

“How long has this… girl, been missing?”

Mathieu sighed. “She was last seen two nights ago.”

The ladder groaned under Rayyndin’s weight as he strained to listen harder. He could feel the disapproving glares the other ‘patrons’ were boring into his back but he paid them no mind. Right now, he needed to catch every single word.

“Shame,” tutted J’urabi.

“Indeed,” Mathieu agreed grimly, but Rayyndin could detect the trace of emotion behind his formality. That was how his voice sounded in council when he had to relay the voices of his people without showing how much he despised them. _Please do not let this be true,_ he thought desperately. _I could not bear it._

The earth above them shook slightly. A silence broke the quiet and he stopped, glancing around at the other confused faces in the room. Slowly their eyes drifted back to the ceiling, waiting frantically for somebody to speak, though no words came. More earth crumbled down the walls. The wooden support beams moaned. Fear began to creep over his skin.

He gulped.

“What kind of establishment did you say this was, again?”

There was an ever so slight delay, but in their suspicion they would have caught it. “A cornerclub, _serjo_.”

“Right.” The ceiling shook again. Slowly it dawned on them that someone was jumping. A bead of sweat rolled down Rayyndin’s forehead.

“You can’t possibly be hiding a girl under the rug. Surely you won’t mind if we look?”

The swallow J’urabi took was practically audible. “Not at all,” he said. They wasted no time.

A _whoosh_ was heard and the pelt was swept back. One of the guards started to chuckle. Mathieu silenced him.

“Any information you’d like to share with us now, sera?” he asked calmly. J’urabi let out a nervous chortle, but thankfully it carried well.

“Ah, my apologies, serjo,” he said, still laughing quietly to himself. “I forgot to show you where my patrons sleep. I would appreciate it if you refrained from bothering them.”

“I’m sure they won’t mind,” said Mathieu, spiking the padlock with what must have been the tip of his dagger. “That’s some tight security.”

“These are dark times,” answered J’urabi, prodding it instead with the key. At the sudden proximity of the sound Rayyndin jumped back, and only just managed to regain his balance before the ladder buckled with him still attached to it. He scrambled down and scurried back over to his stool, putting his forehead against the wall and resting his feet on the table. The instant his boots made contact with the wood the hatch swung open, and J’urabi’s face appeared in the opening. Someone in the opposite corner of the room cleared their throat loudly.

With a grunt, his cousin began to descend the ladder. Out of the corner of his eye Rayyndin studied the way he moved, watching the slump of his shoulders and the lack of tension in his body. Mathieu was tired most of the time but _this_ ; he was emotionally exhausted. Rayyndin averted his gaze and tried to focus on the roots that curled around cracks in the soil. The least he could do was avoid drawing attention to himself now.

“Search the rooms,” Mathieu ordered once on his feet. The guards dispersed loudly, all clanking chitin and mindless grunting as they flung open the door on the other side of the chamber and routinely began their search. Ironically, J’urabi’s lie wasn’t _entirely_ untrue, as the rooms that flanked either side of that narrow corridor did indeed contain sleeping patrons. However, their potential inebriation hadn’t exactly been on J’urabi’s priority list, so they could do nothing but wait and hope that the guards didn’t find anything unlawful. Apparently J’urabi only paid attention to the ones who were heirs to a position in the Redoran High Council.

The sound didn’t carry well around the earthen walls and dense air, so as the guards and the noise that followed them delved further into the network, the quiet rose up again and they were left with no-one but Mathieu. He stood in the middle of the sparsely decorated room, glancing round at each inhabitant in turn and rubbing his heavy set eyes with two long, gloved fingers. Eventually they settled on Rayyndin. He could feel his steady gaze bore into him but he resisted the urge to turn and meet it, until J’urabi inhaled sharply and he heard Mathieu’s gentle footsteps increase in volume. He remained firmly staring at the wall, breathing through his nostrils.

“Morning, traveller,” his cousin said, amiably enough. Rayyndin only grunted in response, wanting to have to speak as little as necessary. He took care to ensure the angle of his head always concealed his eyes beneath the hood, revealing only his jaw and lips. If he played his cards right, though his heart was about ready to beat out of his chest, the shadows would take care of the rest.

“We don’t often get many wanderers travelling this far north. What brings you to Blacklight?”

Rayyndin coughed and shifted in his seat, folding his fingers across his abdomen in what he hoped was a casual manner. “And why should I tell you?” he grumbled, suddenly grateful that his voice still held that low, buzzing quality skooma usually afflicted you with. Mathieu’s eyes narrowed and his tongue clicked, but though it was a habit Rayyndin knew well he was yet to give any indication that he was aware of Rayyndin’s true identity.

“Because House Redoran has ways of dealing with people who fail to cooperate with a simple request.”

 _B’vek_ , Mathieu was tired. The threat was so lazily disguised he might as well have said, _‘Tell me now or I’ll slit your throat.’_

“I’m a courier,” he lied, coughing again. “Here on official business.”

“I won’t pry about that,” said Mathieu, raising his hands. “However there are a few questions I’d like to ask about something else.”

Rayyndin grunted again, gesturing to the seat opposite lazily with one hand. Mathieu took it deftly.

“When you arrived at Blacklight,” he said, straight to business, as always. His voice was flat and strictly formal. “Did you pass anyone on the road worth mentioning?”

Rayyndin paused, choosing his next words carefully. “What kind of person ‘m I lookin’ out for?” he asked, purposely thickening his accent for extra effect. Mathieu’s lips pursed.

“A young Dunmer girl, barely an adult. Wildly frizzy hair, most likely garmented in something expensive.”

Something must have shown on Rayyndin’s face because Mathieu frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t help you w’ that,” he choked out eventually, twisting his head sideways. Mathieu’s fingers began drumming on the tabletop and his cheek sank as he chewed on the inside of his gum. Rayyndin knew exactly what those things meant.

“If it helps,” Mathieu said, the expression in his voice laced with an edge Rayyndin couldn’t quite put his finger on, “she disappeared two nights ago. She was last said to have been seen by her brother.”

Rayyndin almost spluttered on the drink he didn’t have. “What’s that got t’ do w’ me?” he asked, failing to conceal how he was dying slowly on the inside.

“I don’t know,” said Mathieu, like it was obvious. He got steadily to his feet and left a couple of septims on the table out of sheer courtesy. Something told Rayyndin that he knew he didn’t need them. “You might have to figure that one out for yourself.”

Rayyndin released the breath was he holding and resisted the urge to swear loudly. His cousin moved back to the centre of the room and waited for the last of the guards to fall in, investigating the back of his gloved hand like it held all the answers. “Find anything of use?” he asked absently once they were all assembled, lazily raising his gaze to them a few moments after. The guards shook their heads and released a chorus of ‘no sirs.’ Mathieu sighed.

“Very well. Thank you for your time,” he said, turning to J’urabi, who nodded and removed his hand from his chin.

“Of course, serjo,” said the Khajiit, bowing slightly. Once the last guard was up Mathieu started his own ascent of the ladder and added, “We won’t be bothering you again,” before his feet disappeared from view and the hatch fell back into place. The silence that followed was almost tangible.

“You _fool_ ,” J’urabi hissed once the shock had faded, charging over to where Rayyndin was seated and seizing him by the neck. The others in the room all stood up in protest as Rayyndin’s back hit the wall and the air was audibly knocked out of him, but J’urabi’s grip only tightened around his throat. His teeth were bared menacingly and his pupils were slits, his tail twitching angrily back and forth. “How could not have thought that it might be your cousin?!”

Rayyndin tried to wheeze out an answer but the words were forced back into his lungs until he choked on them, the dwindling remains of his air supply coming short and harsh. “I –” J’urabi slammed him back into the wall with surprising strength, and Rayyndin groaned as several vertebrae ground against each other. His vision became spotted, and not in the pleasant way.

“My head will be on a _spike_ because of you,” he snarled, digging his claws into Rayyndin’s skin until he felt blood. The Dunmer let out a pathetic squeaking sound and started writhing beneath his grip, desperate for his feet to gain friction with the floor, but it was of no use. His grey face started turning an unnatural shade of purple and this only edged J’urabi onwards.

“ _Filthy greyskin_ ,” he spat, “you won’t even make it home for them to start the _investigation,_ they won’t find your body until they come back here for another snoop and see you lying in a pool of your own sickly, skooma rich blood, but we’ll be _long gone_ , oh yes, there’ll be nothing for your family here, nothing but the rotting corpse of their disgraced son and the tarnished reputation of the Dutheri name flowing from _gorgeous, gorgeous bottles of skooma_ , skooma, I _need it,_ I need it and you _took it_ from me you _filthy_ , filthy -”

“Enough, you overgrown pussy cat,” growled Sheevara, grabbing for J’urabi’s waist and pulling the Khajiit flailing and yowling away from Rayyndin. He collapsed to the floor in a heap and gasped out for breath, his lungs on fire and his hands curling around his burning throat in an attempt to soothe it. “The boy’s done nothing wrong.”

“He recognized him!” J’urabi was screeching, clawing and scrabbling to escape from Sheevara’s grip, “the fool got himself caught! They’ll be back later, you’ll see, the suspicion’s set and they’ll be back before nightfall and you’ll _all_ be tossed in the dungeons.” He howled, raking his claws down Sheevara’s scales. The sound was cut off abruptly when Varos, a Dunmer sailor and regular patron to the den, clocked him over the head with a bottle. J’urabi crumpled in on himself and lay stiff, the fur on the top of his head matted and damp with his blood.

Varos turned to Rayyndin, who was still recovering against the wall. His eyes were harsh. “He’s not wrong, you know,” he said eventually, his voice deep and hoarse. Sheevara moved away and J’urabi’s body hit the floor with a dull thump. Nobody said anything for a while.

Varos raised his arm and pointed at Rayyndin accusingly, turning to the other patrons. “That man,” he said loudly, “your cousin. He recognized you, did he not?”

“He did,” Rayyndin wheezed out, finding it difficult to speak.

“Right. So he’s going to be wondering what his cousin was doing in a _cornerclub_ , and, moreover, why he had to lie about it.” Varos twisted round again and locked eyes with Rayyndin, his brows drawn and his angular jaw set. “What’s that going to mean for us?”

“They’re going to do some digging,” spat somebody from the back, getting up from their seat. “There aren’t many conclusions they can draw from that.”

“But we have the notice,” protested Sheevara. “It’ll be hours, days even, before they have the time to focus on something as petty as this. We can move all of our stocks to a safehouse and keep the bunker running here. There’s nothing they can do without evidence.”

“You think they don’t know that?!” barked Varos. “House Redoran is booming, they’ve got more than enough men! They’ll catch us unawares. This isn’t going to be another search, they’ve already _done_ that, they’ll be running a full-on investigation. We’re all destined for the slaughterhouse.”

A cacophony of objections and complaints swelled in the room until each voice blurred into a mass of indistinguishable babbling. Rayyndin wanted to speak out but it was fruitless against the panic that had now firmly rooted itself into the crowd, especially since being under the influence of both fear and skooma never really bode well for anybody who tried to see reason. He put a hand over his aching abdomen and croaked out a few words, but they fell upon dead ears. If only he could get somebody’s attention…

He grabbed one of the empty liquor bottles and smashed it against the table leg, watching with a small sense of satisfaction as the silence swept over the mob like the tide.  Stunned eyes turned to stare at him, some of them dilated, some of them not, and the tension was pulled tight as they waited for him to speak. He cleared his throat and tried to sit up.

“Ever thought of just leaving?” he coughed, using the table top to shakily lever himself to his feet. Either they were shocked at the gall of his suggestion or they just didn’t understand, but nobody responded. “Nothing’s keeping you here. Nobody knows your names. You could just leave.”

“And what about this place?” asked Varos, taking a defensive step forwards. “Are we expected to just go elsewhere for our… needs?”

Rayyndin rolled his eyes. Probably not the best idea, but he had had just about enough of it this morning and wasn’t really in the mood when somebody he loved very dearly could have been dead. He ignored the nods and murmurs of agreement. “Oh, by the Three, enough of that bullshit,” he said, coughing again as he folded his arms across his chest. “We’re criminals, you can get over it.” Several people gasped and he had to resist the urge to say, “Revelation!”

Varos growled and moved towards him but Sheevara grabbed his arms before he could advance any. “Not you too,” she hissed. “It’s not like anybody else has any better ideas.”

“Mathieu’s my cousin,” Rayyndin continued, his voice slowly starting to return to him. “And in case you’ve forgotten, me and him both actually have quite a bit of influence in this city. I could talk to him, see what I can do. The den might not even be touched.”

“But what if that doesn’t work?” demanded Varos, reeling forwards despite Sheevara’s tight grip on his arms.

Rayyndin glared at him. “Then I give you advance warning, you follow Sheevara’s original plan, and we lay low for a bit until things quieten down.”

“ _We?!_ ”

Varos spat at Rayyndin’s feet. Rayyndin made a show of recoiling.

“Fine,” he sighed eventually, mentally cursing up a storm. “And I never show my face here again.”

Varos said nothing but he looked somewhat satisfied. Sheevara gave Rayyndin a pointed look over Varos’ shoulder and inclined to the trapdoor with her head. “You should probably leave now, _greyskin_.” Her words were harsh but her voice lacked any contempt. As a sitter, she wasn’t as violent as most of the regulars, and Rayyndin had always liked her practicality. He nodded to her in a small expression of gratitude.

 

Rayyndin understood why they were doing this but that didn’t mean he liked it. Whatever he had said to Varos about being a criminal, he knew for a fact that there was no securer place for such illicit activities than J’urabi’s, and a man had his needs. He had a couple of days at most before it all wore off, and without satiation he’d be as violent as J’urabi had been - which was something he never enjoyed. He tried not to think about how he had known the Khajiit for coming up to twenty five years now, because there was no time for emotional attachments in this business and he’d have time to get over that later, when his sister wasn’t missing and potentially in danger. He stuck his chin into the air and made his way proudly through the silence towards the ladder. Better to hold onto his remaining shred of dignity while he still could.

* * *

It was dusk before Mathieu returned to Dutheri manor. Deciding that there was no point seeking him out mid-search, Rayyndin had waited out in his room for the past three hours, having spent the rest of his day taking a nap in the rented room of an actual cornerclub. As anticipated, his cousin’s room was in a state of organized anarchy, the floor and his unmade bed littered with parchments and letters and documents. Taking advantage of his intellectual interests, Rayyndin had been entertaining himself with a good novel; he was right up to the plot twist in ‘ _A Hypothetical Treachery,’_ when the door opened and Mathieu entered with a sigh.

His cousin didn’t seem to notice him at first. He dumped his cloak by the doorway and started undoing his belt, his usually neat, combed back hair falling out of place and flopping messily over his forehead. Rayyndin, though not exactly trying to remain hidden, said nothing as Mathieu removed his shirt and slid lazily over to the wash basin, having decided it would be best to allow Mathieu the first words. Mathieu rinsed his face with water and pushed back his fringe, silently freshing himself up for the evening. When he reached for a towel to dry himself with, he said, “Care to elaborate on why you were in a cornerclub this morning?”

Rayyndin pushed the thick, red curtain aside and swung his legs over the edge of Mathieu’s bed, burying his long fingers in his hair. Mathieu turned round to face him expectantly, his eyebrows raised as he shrugged on a new tunic and started tucking it into the hem of his trousers. “Hm?”

Rayyndin sighed. “Mathieu, I- I have a confession to make,” he began. Mathieu snorted.

“Save it,” he said, tugging on a fine overcoat, “I wasn’t born yesterday. It may have escaped your notice but you’re not exactly the most subtle in your, ah, night-time hobbies.”

 Rayyndin’s eyes widened. “Do my parents know?”

“Of course they don’t know,” Mathieu said. He was adjusting his cuffs and collar, making the red and gold embroidery look as presentable as possible. “They see what they want to see. The thought of their noble war hero doing _anything_ illegal has probably never even occurred to them.”

Rayyndin frowned. “And Cassathra?”

Mathieu’s face fell. He took a seat on a stool and started adjusting the pullstring at the bottom of his trousers, refusing to meet Rayyndin’s gaze. “That may have escaped your notice also, but Cassathra’s actually missing right now.”

“And?” Rayyndin sat up expectantly, clasping his hands between his knees. “Surely you found something today?”

“I did,” Mathieu said, looking up briefly with a set jaw and hard eyes before moving to the other leg, “but you’re avoiding the subject. There’s something you want to ask me about the skooma den, I can tell.”

A thick silence befell the two of them while Mathieu waited patiently for Rayyndin to speak, the only sounds filling the room that of ruffling fabric and Mathieu adjusting his clothing. Eventually Rayyndin blurted, “You’re not going to go back there, are you?”

“No,” Mathieu conceded, pulling on his boots and folding over the tops. “I’m not. And the guards aren’t either.”

Rayyndin breathed a sigh of relief and collapsed back onto the bed. That was one less thing to worry about. He’d be able to show his face there again, now.

“On one condition,” Mathieu continued. Rayyndin flinched, expecting the worst as Mathieu intentionally dragged out the silence for as long as possible. This was just s _o_ like him. “You’re not allowed to go back there ever again.”

Rayyndin almost choked. “Mathieu, you can’t be serious –”

“Oh, I’m sure that’ll be easier than you think,” said Mathieu, and Rayyndin sat up, staring at him in confusion. Mathieu fumbled around in his cloak and pulled out a slip of paper, handing it to Rayyndin with a funny expression on his face. “A courier approached me with this today. An _actual_ courier,” he added with an unimpressed raise of the eyebrows. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”

Giving his cousin one last suspicious look Rayyndin turned his gaze downwards and began cautiously unfolding the parchment. It was incredibly vague, with no address or seal or anything. He had to keep unfolding it and unfolding until the paper was almost twice as large as he was expecting, and the writing looked rather insignificant and small right in the centre of it. The script was one he recognized instantly; his breathing hitched as he began reading.

_To my dearest brother and cousin,_

_This letter and the information in it are for your eyes only. I want you to know that I am safe and sound, and that there is no need for you to worry about me. However I am not coming back to Blacklight, possibly ever again. If you wish to come and find me, I’ll be staying in the Helgen Homestead in the Falkreath hold of Skyrim until Middas the 27 th of Last Seed. After that, I’ll make my way up north to the College of Winterhold. Please understand that for the first time in my life I’m doing what’s best for me. I love you both._

_Cassathra_

Rayyndin read it once, and then twice, and then over and over until Mathieu had to take it from his hands himself and put it back in his cloak. He sat there gawping like a fish, at a complete loss as for what to do. Eventually Mathieu said, “What are you thinking?”

“I –” Rayyndin started, closing his mouth and frowning, “I’m just happy she’s alive.”

Mathieu looked thoughtful for a few moments and remained silent, as if choosing his next words carefully. “Are… are you aware of the current political situation in Skyrim?”

Rayyndin frowned. “Should I be?”

“There are a few, ah, tensions brewing over there at the moment,” Mathieu admitted. “There’s a rebellion growing in the East. Nords, predictably, unhappy with the White Gold Concordat. There are talks of a civil war.”

Rayyndin swallowed. “And you’re telling me this because?”

“You could say they’re pretty patriotic. They’re being led by a man called Ulfric Stormcloak, who has a reputation for being a little… well, racist. And he has a particular penchant for hating Dunmer.”

Fear lodged itself into Rayyndin’s throat and he choked thickly, his fingers clamping over the edge of Mathieu’s mattress. “Whereabouts is Falkreath?” he asked, his previous sense of relief evaporating like a cold sweat. “Is she safe?”

“It’s in the West, thankfully,” Mathieu said. “I was doing some digging around earlier today and learned that their leader, the Jarl there, has claimed allegiance to the Empire should a war break out. However, Winterhold is Stormcloak territory. The College swears political neutrality but the journey there will be treacherous for someone of our kind.”

“Should she choose to undertake it,” Rayyndin finished, staring blankly ahead. “Mathieu, we have to stop her.”

“Exactly. That’s what I’m proposing now.”

“What, you need me to help to write a letter? Mathieu, I know I said I was a courier earlier but –”

“No, we’re not using courier. We’re going ourselves.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

“I’ve arranged a hearing this evening with your parents, after dinner,” he said, tying his belt around his waist and fastening his dagger sheath to it. “Think about it, Rayyndin. Cassathra doesn’t want us to tell them. I get the feeling she’d like them to know about her magic about as much as you’d like them to know about your little skooma addiction, so you’d be best to respect her wishes. But how do we tell Sethrasti and Jothryn that we know where their daughter is without telling them why, or how we know?” He sighed, futilely pushing his hair back in an attempt to get it to flatten. “And even if we do manage it, they’ll just put up a bounty there, I can tell. Cassathra’s clever, that won’t work, especially with the civil war. If we tell them that we received word of a Dunmer girl seen going through Dunmeth Pass, and make it out that she was heading to Windhelm, they might just let us go.”

“No,” Rayyndin shook his head. “They’ll just send guards to do it. If they’ve lost two children why would they risk sending over a third?”

“If that’s the case then we’re going anyway,” said Mathieu, with a sense of finality and vigour Rayyndin hadn’t heard from his usually bored cousin in years. “We’re the only ones who know she’s in Helgen and I’d rather die than force her to spend the rest of her life here.” He shifted uncomfortably, and Rayyndin noticed for the first time that he looked guilty.“It- it’s my fault this happened,” he admitted, refusing to make eye contact. “Before she left, she came to me asking for permission to learn from the Telvanni. I told her that her parents would never allow it. Then, well. She disappeared.”

He looked crestfallen. Rayyndin suddenly felt guilty too, guilty for being so absent when his cousin and his sister both needed him. _Gods_ , he had learned nothing the first time round. Ane would be rolling in her grave. He got to his feet and cleared his throat awkwardly. He and Mathieu didn’t have the best relationship but he wanted to help him, and if they’d be undertaking this together then he should make the effort to start now. “It’s not your fault, Mathieu,” he said, doing his best to sound gentle. “It would have happened either way. You just told her the truth. Whether it was from you or our parents, Cassie would’ve done it. She’s so stubborn.”

Mathieu glanced hesitantly upwards but he still looked unsure. Eventually he frowned and let out a long sigh, looking away again. “Whatever. Let’s go and eat. Kwama egg and scuttle pie, I think.”

Without turning back he ran his hand through his hair in one final attempt and left, leaving Rayyndin by himself. Giving a sigh himself and casting one last glance over to the open pages of _A Hypothetical Treachery_ , he followed. They were in for a fun meal.

* * *

“Tell me again why you think I should let you do this,” Jothryn said, her eyes harsh as she looked down upon Mathieu from her seat. Her husband, Sethrasti, sat beside her, staring blankly out into the nothingness and drumming his fingers restlessly against the armrest. His eyes were tinted with a deep purple.

Mathieu scowled in an equally harsh manner, refusing to drop eye contact. “Redoran is getting ‘ _so successful’_ nowadays you seem to be letting any old s’wit in. Our guard force is completely incapable.” He folded his arms across his chest, tapping his fingers against his ribcage. “With the unrest in Skyrim it would be unwise to send a large military taskforce in from the East. The Stormcloaks would see it as an invasion.”

“I am not suggesting we send a _taskforce,_ Mathieu,” Jothryn barked, looking outright affronted. “I just fail to see why we have to send _you._ You’re the best diplomat we have, and with your parents away in Ald’Ruhn so often it would be senseless to send you after such a fraying lead.”

Rayyndin, who was leaning against a wall in the corner of the room, glowered and looked away. She was barely even taking him into consideration.

“It’s not a fraying lead, m’lady, it’s solid evidence,” he lied. “The Dunmeth Pass is practically deserted, so a solitary Dunmer girl in Redoran garb is no coincidence.”

“And what about when you get to Skyrim? What do you suggest happens then? How long would this endeavour take?”

Frankly, Rayyndin thought this entire affair was completely pointless. There was absolutely no chance Jothryn would let them go willingly, and running the hearing to attempt it just meant she would know where they’d gone when they did leave. The last thing they needed were some Redoran incompetents following them into Skyrim as they tried to escort Cassathra safely to Winterhold.

“Your daughter isn’t stupid enough to stay in Stormcloak territory, m’lady,” said Mathieu. “We’d be able to conduct thorough searches throughout each of the Imperial holds. I estimate it should take no more than a month, at the absolute most.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Oh, by the Three, you can’t let everything depend on hypotheticals!” Mathieu cried, quickly losing his cool. Rayyndin wondered whether he was doing it intentionally to change Jothryn’s mind about him being the ‘best diplomat’; either way, he knew what he meant by the hypotheticals. He had read a whole book about it earlier.

“I’ve lost one child before, Mathieu, and now a second has disappeared. I refuse to let you and my last go gallivanting off into the wild when there’s absolutely no need.”

 _Almost word for word_ , Rayyndin thought bitterly, clenching his teeth.

“Cassathra _trusts_ us, m’lady,” Mathieu seethed, “if she found out she was being hunted by somebody else you risk her going further into hiding. You underestimate her intelligence.”

Rayyndin paled and Jothryn turned red. “Insolence!” she hissed, “This is my own _daughter_ you’re talking about here!”

Mathieu had let his emotions get the better of him, and with a twitch of his ear Rayyndin knew he was aware of it. It was subtle, though; he held his own. His jaw jut out sideways as he grit his teeth.

“How _dare_ you imply she is doing this willingly,” Jothryn continued. “You think you know her so well.”

Mathieu’s fists dropped to his sides and he took a clear step forwards, a physical display of offense. “If it escaped your notice, m’lady, she was seen walking along Dunmeth Pass _by herself!_ ”

“ _Guards,_ ” snarled Jothryn, though she refused to take her eyes off of her nephew, “search Cassathra’s room. Every diary, every journal, leave nothing untouched. I want solid proof once and for all.”

“Ah, serjo,” stammered one of the guards, “we did that already today.”

Mathieu swore under his breath and rubbed his temples, shaking his head.

“I do not care!” cried Jothryn, also losing her temper rapidly. “Do it again!”

Her voice cracked and Rayyndin’s heart broke. She was still his mother, and her youngest child had gone missing. He’d be upset too if all he had left was a lazy, depressed young man who hadn’t left Blacklight since the end of the Great War.

“And you,” she said, turning to another one who visibly flinched and took a step back, “I want a bounty set up in _every single hold_ for her to be returned alive and safe.”

“M’lady, are you sure that’s wise with the current – ”

She buried her face in her hands and started to weep. “I do not care about that n’wah fetcher Ulfric Stormcloak and his barbarians,” she sobbed, tears seeping through the cracks in her fingers. “He can shove all of Skyrim up his own arse for all I care. I just want my daughter back.”

The guard nodded hurriedly and scampered off, leaving just the four of them in the chamber. Mathieu cringed, Rayyndin’s lips parted, Sethrasti remained still but his eyes were glistening wet. All that could be heard were the pathetic wails of Jothryn’s anguished, heart wrenching cries.

Rayyndin and Mathieu made eye contact and a silent agreement was made then and there. They would get Cassathra to Winterhold alive and well if it killed them. If she refused to come back to Blacklight, the least they could would be to make sure she was safe. They owed it to Jothryn, and to Cassathra, and to themselves.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo all!
> 
> Yes, I'm rewriting. I feel like this is a massive improvement upon the last version but if you disagree and think I should just carry on with that, PLEASE let me know. Otherwise, try and forget everything that happened in version 1 - this will be different and the characters are truer to their original format here. Making comparisons never did me any good. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm hoping this will do slightly better, since the last was just a little bit of a flop. However my inspiration is absolutely through the roof now, so updates ought to be more regular, and that's always a good thing. Constructive criticism is appreciated but just a kudos or a little 'hey there' in the comments to let me know you exist is equally welcomed, and remember, I send a review for every review I get!
> 
> Also; I am in need of a beta. If you're interested hit me up at frances.burrs@gmail.com for more details. Thanks!
> 
> Frankie out


	2. Unbound

Rayyndin was just about drifting off to sleep when Mathieu rapped quietly on his door.

He sighed and pulled himself slowly upright, feeling his insides turn at the movement. The buzzing in his head was still relatively strong and his vision hadn’t quite focused yet, but he was sober enough to understand what was happening. He had timed it rather well, it seemed.

Mathieu entered equally as silent, his face concealed by the characteristic Redoran helmet. In the darkness Rayyndin thought he could make out a dim red glow emanating from the eye slit, though he was aware that it was potentially just the remaining skooma in his bloodstream. He was yet to regain _all_ of the feeling in his fingers.

“We’re leaving,” Mathieu murmured, his usually smooth voice husky and rattling. It was followed with a cough, one of the many unfortunate side effects of an ash storm. They could hear it howling through even the thick walls of the crab shell, and despite the protective coverings most decent buildings in Morrowind had over their windows for such eventualities, the shutters still clattered against the wall and the occasional persistent ash cloud coughed itself up into the atmosphere. Rayyndin swung his feet over his mattress and pushed his toes into the imported fur rug he had next to his bed.

“I gathered,” he said dryly, gathering up the energy to start dressing himself for the journey. Ash storms were a bitch to travel in, and required some of the sturdiest equipment known to Nirn. Mathieu was already three times bulkier than he usually was, several layers of underclothes and travel robes and bonemold armour and overclothes giving him the intimidatingly square appearance Dunmer loved to impose upon foreign diplomats. Tugging at his collar, Rayyndin cringed slightly as he glanced to his own set; it was necessary if he wanted to avoid getting ash in places he didn’t even know he had, but by the Three it was stuffy.

“I’ll let you get ready,” Mathieu rasped, having to clear his throat again. “Meet me outside the southern gate in half an hour.”

Rayyndin could no longer suppress his sigh. “Why in an ash storm, Mathieu?”

“Less suspicious,” he explained with a shrug, making his way back to Rayyndin’s bedroom door. “They’d never expect us to do so and it gives us reason to cover our faces. I’m meant to be travelling to Ald’Ruhn in the morning anyway. It was now or never.”

He mumbled something about Rayyndin taking a few necessities along before the door shut behind him and Rayyndin was left with the lingering smell of skooma and the dying embers of his fireplace. _It was only less suspicious if they avoided getting caught_ , he thought bitterly, staring at the closed door like it had every solution. Setting off in an ash storm was not something anybody with a brain would attempt.

He picked up his tunic with a frustrated grunt and dragged it over his head, suddenly wishing everything would stop _buzzing._ He just wanted the purple to recede. He wanted his skin to stop crawling. He wanted Cassathra safe.

Using the remaining heat from his fire he lit a candle and poured water onto the embers, watching as they spluttered and fizzled into demise with a hiss. The room was plunged into darkness until only abstract shapes emerged, forcing him to form a vague impression of where things were based on memory and assumptions alone. Only the small portion next to his bed where the candle still flickered was illuminated, though it was dim. He pulled his armour out from under the wardrobe and reluctantly started dressing, his fingers gliding over every buckle and strap like they had done thousands of times before.

It probably took a little over twenty minutes for him to fasten all of his armour and securely drape all of his cloths – which with gauntlets was almost impossible – but it was a task that demanded thoroughness. Ash was insistent and would penetrate everything if not properly covered, so it was worth the frustration, even if he wasn’t thinking about that just yet. The current priority was to make it to the southern gate in time to placate Mathieu’s it’s-too-early-for-this temper without being caught. Which, he found once he opened his door to the sound of receding footsteps, would be more difficult than Mathieu made it seem.

Cursing the clumsiness and conspicuousness of his attire, Rayyndin waited until the glow of the guard’s torch had dissipated down the corridor before straightening his shoulders and making his way in the other direction. The Dutheri family, as holders of many seats in the Redoran High Council, owned a large manor high up on the outskirts of the Blacklight, filled with ornate architecture and lavish decorations. The hallway gently curved round a great central pillar that housed their spiralling staircase, and had a swooping arched ceiling that gave the space an entirely organic look. With little light to guide the way Rayyndin placed a hand on the interior wall and made his way slowly round the corner, waiting for the gap that indicated an entryway. Once there, he checked briefly over his shoulder to ensure there was no-one in sight, before he fled into the shadowy depths of their stairs. The adrenaline seemed to carry him to their doorway before he could really think about it.

Despite the window of risk it posed to the cities, guards were rarely on duty during an ash storm unless they were the really, really minor ones. This never really resulted in much because there weren’t that many criminals willing to be caught in a storm either. Blacklight was nestled inside a crater of jagged rocks that thrust aggressively from the ground and largely protected it from such harsh weather conditions, but these had their weaknesses on the southern and northern sides where the bitter sea winds were free to roam. They whipped at Rayyndin’s cloak as soon as he exited the house, and he cringed internally when he realized they would soon be much worse.

Deciding it would be awful to make Mathieu wait stationary in such terrible conditions for much longer, Rayyndin wasted no time in taking off down the stairs and speed-walking it down to the next street level. He remained on this as he followed the curve of the bulwark round a quarter turn to the southern gate, where Mathieu’s dramatically silhouetted form rose up insignificant against the immensity of Blacklight. He scurried up the stairs to meet him, out of breath already if purely from all the extra weight he was carrying. _At least the winds are coming in from the north,_ he thought as moved to pat the knapsack at his side, his ‘necessities’ - at the bottom of the bag the bauble of a skooma bottle kept rolling against his thigh, and there was a small wad of moon sugar wrapped neatly in some linen. It would last him a few weeks, at least, though from what he had heard about Riften it wouldn’t be a problem to find some more.

Mathieu beckoned for him to follow, knowing it would be fruitless to attempt being heard over the howl of the winds. The instant they passed over the threshold the force almost knocked them off balance, and Rayyndin had to hold onto to the back of his loosely fitting helmet just to prevent it from wrenching off his head _. What idiot designed this,_ he thought to himself absently if only to pass the time. At the speed they were going at, what with having to place all of their weight in their feet purely to keep them attached to the ground, it would need to last him a while.

Rayyndin jogged a little to Mathieu’s side and tapped him on the shoulder. With great effort his cousin turned to face him, somehow radiating irritation despite the fact his face and body was covered from head to toe, and stopped as if to say, ‘go on.’ Rayyndin might’ve been imagining things but he was sure he heard some form of verbal response echoing from Mathieu’s helmet.

He pointed to the general direction of the stilt strider port and mimed riding one with both of his hands, (which, again, in gauntlets was quite an achievement,) before cocking his head to the side as if to signify that it was a question. Mathieu was motionless for a moment before he shook his head, turning blankly on his heel and setting off. Rayyndin cursed and tapped him on the shoulder again, only for Mathieu to bat his hand away and take up a defensive position with his legs and fists, leaving Rayyndin to settle reluctantly with the fact Mathieu would have his reasons and he would come to know them soon enough. But as he was met nothing but Mathieu’s retreating back and the endless grey that surrounded them, he realized it was easier said than done. There was nothing but miles and miles of space and yet he still felt so irrevocably claustrophobic.

They continued in silence, their legs wide and their arms stiff at their sides to keep them on their feet. The moaning of the winds reverberated around their metal helmets in a grisly, mournful chorus, forming imaginary rhythms with their pulses and their feet that eventually faded into the pallid grey surroundings like everything else. It was slow progress. By the time they reached the Dunmeth pass, a whole day had passed into dusk, and as the winds began to settle and lessen and the ash gradually receded into dusty earth, the sun clung to the horizon like a tunnel of light in a blood red sky. They found an overhang in the beginnings of the Velothi Mountains and collapsed beneath it, finally able to stop moving without risk.

Mathieu was the first to remove his helmet, coughing up a storm and shaking the ash out of his stained grey hair. Rayyndin was quick to follow, desperate for some clean air that didn’t taste of recycled helmet breath from hours and hours ago. He was so sweaty he was beginning to wonder whether ash would have been a better option, but when that conjured up images of ash clinging to damp skin he shuddered away the discomfort and thought about something else.

Mathieu’s breathing gradually slowed and he leant back against the rocky wall, staring at the enclosed landscape that was neither Morrowind nor Skyrim. He had travelled this pass before; the hills on either side of them would slowly steepen until they were in a gorge, nowhere to go but forwards, and the mountains that ran north all the way up to the coast would reach into the sky and close around them uncomfortably. Very little grew here – it was too cold for the plants of the east and too dry for plants of the west. Everything was earth and stone. He never thought he’d say it, but he was looking forward to seeing the plains of Windhelm.

“So about the stilt striders,” Rayyndin said, and Mathieu sighed.

“You really are dense sometimes, Rayyndin.” He reached for his flask and took a long swig of cool trama root tea, before handing it to his cousin for him to do the same. “The only scheduled strider was the one that was to take me and a few others to Ald’Ruhn. Don’t you think it’d be a bit of a giveaway if two unidentified adventurers took one by themselves to the west?”

Rayyndin shrugged. “It would’ve saved time. They’ll be after us eventually anyway.”

“I’d say we have at least three days before they realize something’s amiss. And even then, it may be weeks before that ash storm dies down.”

“Not likely.”

“Worth the risk.”

They grunted at each other and fell into a silence, which wasn’t uncomfortable but wasn’t particularly companionable either. Eventually Mathieu said, “I’m going to go and collect some firewood. We won’t be needing our helmets in Skyrim so you can find somewhere to hide them that won’t reveal our tracks. Then set up the tent.”

Rayyndin mumbled his acknowledgement and waited for Mathieu to set off before he got up to begin his own task. It wasn’t difficult to find somewhere unobvious to hide the helmets – especially considering that the Redoran guard wouldn’t exactly have armour finding as one of their top priorities – and the tent was uncomplicated. When Mathieu returned it was very nearly dark and he was starting to shiver. His cousin wordlessly got to work setting up the fire.

Rayyndin scooted closer to the warmth as soon as it was lit, desperate for the heat to ease away the stiffness in his joints. Ash storms could do that to you – travelling in them demanded tenseness and constant rigidity, which did bad things to your body if withheld for more than a few hours.

Mathieu handed him some scrib jerky and a chunk of bread, which was mercifully still soft. Rayyndin took and ate them gratefully, his cramping stomach eager for satiation. When he was finished and exhaustion took over, Mathieu offered to take the first watch which Rayyndin happily agreed to, as he crawled into the bedroll and let his body succumb to slumber. He had a deep, restful sleep.

When he awoke it was to Mathieu, his striking features illuminated on his left side by the dawning sun. Rayyndin blinked for a few moments in confusion before sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He was about to ask the question when Mathieu beat him to it; “I wasn’t tired,” he explained, straightening up when he was satisfied that Rayyndin was awake. He noticed that the fireplace had been dismantled and scattered. “Pack your things. We don’t want to be here for much longer.”

Rayyndin did as he was told, taking advantage of the rarity that was a fresh awakening. He was at a good point in the cycle – no unwanted side effects but he was yet to hit withdrawal. It usually lasted a couple of days at most but it was nice to feel like a normal person. He slid into his armour and stuffed the layers he no longer needed into his knapsack, watching as Mathieu packed up the tent.  Ten minutes later and they were on the road again.

It was a long and dull journey. Overall the Dunmeth pass took around three days to cover on foot, but they passed the time with the occasional game or conversation to keep things from getting too tense.

On day three they took to exchanging jokes.

“Alright, alright, I got one,” said Mathieu, having to cough just to repress his last bout of laughter. “Alright, two guys are talking. ‘How is your wife?’ asks Dalither, the first one. And then the second, Harlyth, replies, ‘She’s in bed with laryngitis.’ And then Dalither says, ‘Oh, is that Argonian bastard back in town again?’”

Rayyndin snorted and buried his face in his hands, stumbling off to the side a little in his mirth.

“Here’s one;” he said after recovering a little, “What do you call a Bosmer who doesn’t lie or cheat or steal?”

“Oh, come on, Rayyndin, that joke is almost two thousand years old.”

“It’s still relevant,” he retorted, as Mathieu muttered the words ‘a dead Bosmer’ to himself and started giggling all over again.

“Whatever you say,” he chuckled, “I have a better one.”

Rayyndin sighed. “Go on then.”

“Alright,” Mathieu began, clearing his throat, “during the War of Betony, the Bretons in the Isle of Craghold were under siege for several days. After the island was liberated, Lord Bridwell found the ruins of the castle where a crowd of survivors were hidden away in the dark. It was going to be a difficult job freeing them, as part of the roof had collapsed and they were all trapped. Bridwell stuck his head in the only opening and shouted to the Bretons below: ‘Are there any expectant mothers down there?’

And then a young woman said -” he faltered, breaking down into laughter. He tried to continue but failed again and in frustration Rayyndin elbowed him in the ribs, chiding, “Come on, Matty,” though he was laughing also.

“‘It's hard to say, your Lordship,’” Mathieu continued, leaving a long pause before delivering the punchline; "‘We've only been down here for a few days.’"

Rayyndin cackled, practically howling with laughter until his abdomen ached and his throat felt hoarse. Eventually the chuckles died down, and Mathieu cleared his throat, giving out a contented sigh. “Alright,” he said, “alright, that’s enough. We’ve slowed down to almost half our original speed.”

“One more,” said Rayyndin, and after trying to keep a straight face and failing Mathieu conceded, “Fine.”

Rayyndin cleared his throat and put on his best storytelling voice; “Once upon a time, a big Nord named Julgen was attacked by a group of bandits. He fought them furiously, but in the end, they beat him into semi consciousness. They searched his pockets and discovered that he only had three gold pieces on him.

‘Do you mean to tell us you fought us like a mad lupe for three lousy gold pieces?’ sneered one of the bandits.

‘No,’ answered Julgen. ‘I was afraid you were after the four hundred gold pieces in my boot.’”

The laugh was forced out of his lungs when something landed on his back, and he collapsed forwards onto his belly with a grunt. His skull rattled around his head from the impact before it was yanked back, and his scalp burned where someone was pulling on his short hair. His neck was at an uncomfortable angle. He groaned.

“Huh,” said the voice of a heavily accented Nordic woman in the common tongue, pressing the blade of something sharp and cold to his throat, “that’s actually pretty funny.”

His breath starting coming ragged. “I preferred the one about the Argonian,” said a man, and Rayyndin turned to see him pressing Mathieu up against the cliffside wall. He tried to call out his cousin’s name but the Nord pressed the dagger in harder and he wheezed pathetically.

“So what is it?” she demanded, straddling his back. “Are you Morag Tong? Imperial spies? Refugees wanting to use up _our_ resources?”

“We’re just _travellers_ ,” spat Mathieu, writhing in an attempt to free himself. “Let us go for fuck’s sakes.”

“I don’t think Ulfric would like that very much,” the man said, heaving his knee up sharply between Mathieu’s legs. The Dunmer croaked.

“And you call yourself soldiers,” Rayyndin snarled, sneering with his remaining strength. “You’re nothing but glorified bloody bandits.”

The woman hissed and slammed his head back down onto the earth, putting her mouth next to his ear so he could feel her breath on his skin. “Show some respect, _elf._ ” His vision went spotty, and bloodied spittle dripped off his chin. “There’s a reason we dislike your people. Search him,” she ordered to the other man, and he did as he was told, keeping a dagger pressed against Mathieu’s neck as he patted him down.

“One wrong move, elf,” he threatened, and Mathieu leered at him indignantly.

“We’re innocent,” he said. “If you take a single coin from my person you are officially thieving.”

“Think of it more like charity,” said the woman with what sounded like a grin, as she did the same to Rayyndin. “The Stormcloaks need funding.”

“The Stormcloaks,” Mathieu growled, hissing as the man’s hands tugged at his coin pouch, “need to get their heads out of Ulfric’s arse.”

The Nord clocked him round the side of his head and Mathieu cried out, his nose bloodied and crooked. “Watch your mouth.”

Rayyndin wriggled again, desperate for some leverage. She had his wrists clamped to the small of his back with her thigh and if he raised his head any higher she’d draw blood. “I wonder what Ulfric would think about accepting charity from Dark Elves,” he managed, earning a red, toothy smile from Mathieu.

“Mm,” his cousin agreed as his persecutor pulled the dagger out from his boot. “He may be a racist but I doubt even he would stoop as low as petty thievery.”

“I _said_ ,” barked the male Stormcloak, “to watch your fucking mouth!”

He was fast but Mathieu was faster; the second he pulled away to reach for his weapon Mathieu swung a fist round and knocked the man to the ground, scrabbling for his dagger and holding it to his throat. The woman growled and moved to his aid but as she got to her feet Rayyndin rolled to his side and seized her ankle in his wrist, pulling her backwards so that her jaw hit the earth with a dull grunt.

“Get her weapon!” Mathieu ordered, and Rayyndin scrambled for it. With her blade in hand he tried to fling himself on top of her but he was too slow, and she used the momentum of his body to drag herself over so that she was straddling him again. She punched him repeatedly in the face until she was satisfied he was too weak to move for a few moments, before barrelling over to Mathieu and knocking him off her companion with a cry. Rayyndin watched feebly as they writhed on the floor in a tangle of limbs and curses and spits, helplessly trying to regain his energy. He didn’t even notice when the other Stormcloak dragged himself over and hit the lights out in Rayyndin’s head.

* * *

When they awoke later their armour was gone and it had started to snow.

Rayyndin groaned as he tried to move, having evidently been woken up by Mathieu’s own attempts. The sky was a darkened grey and the shadows were long, indicating that dusk had fallen. He had no idea how long they’d been out.

“Shit,” Mathieu muttered, sitting up and rubbing at his head. Rayyndin reached up to touch his face and realized that it was wet, with chunks of unmelted snow clinging to his lashes and brow. Congealed blood around his mouth cracked a little as he breathed. He started to cough.

“Get up,” Mathieu said eventually. Rayyndin attempted to comply but he couldn’t think straight, and as he sat up his movements were broken by erratic spasms. Every muscle in his body ached with need.

He gasped out. “Mathieu, I –”

Mathieu seemed to sense that something was wrong and moved over to try and help him up. Rayyndin clung to his arm. “Mathieu, my- my knapsack,” he croaked, his arms flailing, “I need it, bring it to me –”

Mathieu put a hand on his back to steady him and said, “Rayyndin, your knapsack’s gone. What’s the matter?”

Rayyndin’s arm jerked away from him into Mathieu’s abdomen and his cousin doubled back, winded. He swore loudly and dry heaved into the snow, slamming his fist down repeatedly into the ground with an anger out of his control. A heavy growl rumbled deep in his chest. Then he started sobbing.

“Ah, shit,” Mathieu mumbled, staggering back. “Rayyndin, can you understand me?”

He nodded weakly, pressing his forehead into the frost and letting it cool his burning flesh. Despite his shivering, his skin felt like it was on fire. “Fuck off, Mathieu,” he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m fine.”

Mathieu scoffed. “Yes. Clearly.”

Rayyndin grunted and thumped the ground again, having to resist the urge to squeeze the life out of something. “This has happened before. I can deal with it.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but it needs to happen faster,” Mathieu said, though he still sounded sympathetic. “We’re already a day behind schedule. Either we get caught or Cassathra sets off for Winterhold. D’you want that, Rayyndin?”

He made a frustrated noise and crawled away, digging into the wet earth with his fingernails. “No,” he managed eventually, though his voice was strained with effort.

“Can you walk?”

“Just -” he faltered, breathing heavily, “just give me a minute.”

“If I come near you, will you fight me?”

Rayyndin grit down his teeth, clenching his fingers so hard into the dirt they began to ache. “No.”

He felt Mathieu’s hands on his sides as he pulled him up, slinging Rayyndin’s arm over his shoulder. He staggered, but his cousin supported him. Slowly, they broke out into a walk.

“So how long does this usually take to wear off?” Mathieu asked.

Rayyndin hissed through his teeth and closed his eyes. “It doesn’t,” he said. “It just gets worse. There’s a, um, a potion. Doesn’t always work.”

Mathieu merely nodded, a silent response. “Hey,” he said after a while, grunting with effort, as despite his grace and agility he wasn’t the strongest, “what happens when an Altmer runs out of magicka?”

Despite everything, Rayyndin’s lips twitched into a smile, and he mumbled, “What.”

Mathieu chuckled. “He, uh, switches to the stick up his arse as a backup weapon.”

Rayyndin snorted, and they laughed together, ambling into Skyrim. Their travels took them long into the night.

* * *

When they reached the end of the Dunmeth pass they turned southward before nearing Windhelm, and handrailed the western face of the Velothi mountains all the way down to Riften. That segment of the journey took about two weeks, altogether. They had lost track of date and time but they knew Cassathra would be nearing Helgen by now, and they knew they didn’t have long until she left. Despite the hardships they faced this kept them going.

They stopped for little rest, fearful that Rayyndin’s condition would worsen dramatically if he was left asleep for too long. His strength returned to him after around a day, but it seemed this was only fuelled by his growing violence. Eventually they agreed it would be safer for Rayyndin to walk ahead, for Mathieu’s safety and so he could keep an eye on him. They gave him water wherever they could find it to fight his worsening fever, and Mathieu hunted for game as best and as often as he could despite their current lack of gear. It was hard, but they had enough to last.

Originally, they were to stop briefly at Shor’s Stone for supplies, but their lack of money had rendered the plan unfeasible. With the time pressure and Rayyndin’s… _instability_ , around other people, it was virtually impossible. So they pressed on to Riften. When the city’s walls came into view on the horizon, Mathieu slowed his pace slightly, and tried to work out what would happen next.

He knew about Riften’s reputation; finding more skooma wouldn’t be difficult, but it didn’t come cheap. They didn’t have enough time to work for money, either, and he doubted the ‘antidote’ Rayyndin had mentioned earlier would be in vast supply, even if he could talk to Rayyndin long enough to find out what it was. Which led to the second problem; what was he going to do with Rayyndin?

It wasn’t hard to realize there was only really one option. He hated having to resort to it but it was the only one he knew for certain would work, after witnessing just how much Rayyndin – even a sober Rayyndin – had softened during their tangle with the Stormcloak patrol. When he tried to recall the last time his cousin had faced battle it was a worryingly difficult task – so he knocked him out. Rayyndin crumpled in on himself and hit the mossy ground with a dull thud, leaving Mathieu to make sure they weren’t in anyone’s eyesight and drag the unconscious body off to a cave somewhere. There, he removed his jacket and his belt despite the worsening weather and bound Rayyndin’s hands and feet. Skooma withdrawal tended to lend its victims surprising strength, but Mathieu prayed he wouldn’t take long enough to find out.

It didn’t take long to find out where Riften’s skooma supply was kept. After spending five minutes wandering around the docks, which was an obvious cliché but one that worked, he was approached by an Argonian woman who asked if he had an antidote and was obviously completely off her head. He told her gently that he didn’t have it, but that he would bring her one if she told him where she got her supply. She directed him to a nearby warehouse, informing him that only the Jarl had the key. He said he didn’t think it would be a problem.

He was halfway through picking the lock – because stealing from criminals didn’t really bother him that much – when a thought occurred to him. It was likely he’d come across some enemies inside, but if his reliance upon his stealth let him down he’d have no chance of winning if it ended in a fight. However, if he had the gear to take them on and he won, he’d be ridding Riften of a notable criminal and earning absolutely nothing for it. So he dropped his pick and headed over to the Keep.

“And what business does an outsider have in solving Riften’s problems?” asked the Jarl, her thin eyebrow raised pointedly as she drummed her fingers against the arm of her throne.

Mathieu cleared his throat and put on his best diplomat voice. “I’m an adventurer travelling from Morrowind, m’lady,” he lied, hoping to conceal his identity. “However I am in need of some funds. If you were willing to accept me I could use the work.”

She pressed her lips together tightly but agreed with a sigh. “Very well. I doubt you’ll be needing much.”

He gave her his best dashing smile. _What a pleasant woman._

“You will need this,” she said as a servant came up and handed him a key. “I must trust that you return to me as soon as the task is complete.”

“Thank you, m’lady,” he said, “although, there is one other thing.”

She sighed. “What?”

“I was, ah, attacked by bandits on the way here and robbed of my weapons. I may require some equipment to deal with the situation.”

“But of course,” she conceded with a false smile, “Speak to Balimund.” Her steward had been scribbling on some parchment and handed it to her along with the quill, which she then used to sign it with. “And show him this.”

Mathieu took the parchment gratefully and bowed low. Then he received a simple iron sword from the blacksmith Balimund who seemed rather reluctant to pass it on with no pay, and was off.

Breaking into somewhere when you had the key was far easier than without. Upon opening the door to the warehouse he was glad to find he had made the right decision, as sitting with the door in full view was a guard not even the sneakiest of thieves could have avoided. He was a Dunmer clad in a complete set of fur armour, and was not hard to dispatch because though he was strong, his movements were slow and ill thought through, giving the sober Mathieu the upper hand. A second dealer, having heard the commotion, came running up the stairs to his companion’s aid, but he too was dealt with quickly. After a quick search Mathieu was pleased to find he had the place to himself.

In the basement skooma was in great supply – Mathieu was reminded briefly of those weeks ago when he ran a search in a similar establishment in Blacklight. As he grabbed a knapsack from a table and started filling it with bottles of skooma and moon sugar, he thought upon how foolish a Jarl must be to grant a complete stranger access to a weapon and a large skooma deposit with no real guarantee he’d ever return. The Redoran back home would never let such a thing go by.

He looted all of the money he could find, as well as the guard’s armour as it was light and he was in need of a new set, before doing a brief once over to check for any important documents. He found a note that had fallen out of his knapsack upon picking it up and pocketed it again, before locking the place up and heading triumphantly back to the Keep.

The Jarl looked a tad concerned about his new set of armour but after handing back the note and the key she relaxed a little and gave him his hundred gold pieces. She also allowed him to keep the sword, but when she offered him a follow-up job he politely declined and went back to Balimund to exchange the sword and some money for a pair of good quality daggers and a bow. He then headed back to Rayyndin’s cave.

A whole day had passed by the time he got back, and unfortunately Rayyndin had come to. He was livid, and covered in purplish bruises from where he had been writhing around, but thankfully the belt around his wrists had done its job, though Mathieu’s jacket was ruined. Mathieu waited a few moments for Rayyndin to adjust to his presence, and then when it posed the minimum risk he held Rayyndin down with one arm and trickled the skooma down his throat with the other. It was a thick, purplish liquid with an intoxicatingly sweet smell, and the effects were almost instant. Rayyndin’s body stilled and his eyes glazed over, and then his breathing started to slow with stiff, shuddering movements.

Mathieu vowed then and there that’d he’d find the antidote one day.

As Rayyndin slipped into his dozy, dreamlike state, Mathieu took it upon himself to light a fire in the small cave and go hunting. His archery skills weren’t brilliant but after a few attempts he managed to land a small pheasant, which he then took back, skinned, and started to cook. He watched his cousin as he did so, and the way the glow from the flames highlighted his sunken face with a sickly orange colour. He’d never looked this bad before, and Mathieu realized for the first time how clever Rayyndin had been in controlling his cycle. He never took it frequently enough for its effects to be truly visible.

He considered attempting to get some sleep, but with Rayyndin there it was made even more difficult than usual. Sometimes he was happy, sometimes he was sad, but when he started shaking violently and whimpering Ane’s name Mathieu got up, went outside for some air, and took a long walk. By the time he returned Rayyndin was fast asleep.

Mathieu awoke a few hours later to his surprise, but as usual he didn’t feel much better than he had done before. He sat up blearily and glanced around in search of Rayyndin, but he was even more surprised to find that his cousin was awake also and preparing a rabbit in front of a fire. _Two meals in less than eight hours…_ amazing.

“I’m sorry, Mathieu,” Rayyndin mumbled when he realized he was awake, shifting his gaze guiltily. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

“S’alright,” Mathieu replied groggily, reaching for his flask to rinse the stale taste from his mouth. “Thanks for making breakfast.”

Rayyndin smiled to himself and deposited the rabbit skin at his side, positioning it on his makeshift spit. “I have to ask though,” he said after a while, “where’d you get it?”

Mathieu shrugged, handing Rayyndin the knapsack. “The Jarl had a bit of a problem.” Rayyndin’s eyes widened when he saw just how much Mathieu had brought. “She was quite happy to let me deal with it.”

“By the Three, Mathieu, what kind of man d’you think I am?”

He was struggling to hold back laughter. Mathieu grinned.

“It’s not like I know what quantities you people need. I wanted to be sure you had enough.”

Rayyndin shook his head, twisting the rabbit.

“It’s a good job you didn’t give me any more than you did last night. Otherwise I’d be out for days and we’d never make it to Cassathra in time.”

Mathieu’s smile faded a little and he coughed. “I want you to know that this doesn’t mean I condone it,” he said, and Rayyndin’s expression darkened too. “As soon as we’re able, you have to promise me you’ll stop. If this antidote theory is true then it’s worth a try.”

Eventually Rayyndin nodded, though he refused to meet Mathieu’s gaze. “Alright. I promise.”

“I mean it,” Mathieu repeated. “I don’t understand why if you knew there was an antidote you never even considered it.”

Rayyndin was silent for a very long time, until the rabbit was almost cooked. When he finally ripped apart the prepared meat and handed some of it to Mathieu, he said, “I guess, well, I- I just thought that a life with it would be preferable to one without.”

It seemed too obvious, but with a sigh Mathieu let it drop. He ate his breakfast carefully, deep in thought, until they were both done and he decided they had spent enough time in one place. They redistributed the load and packed up their things again and headed off to the west. Everything ran smoothly until they reached Ivarstead.

They were sat at the bar in the Vilemyr inn, a mere week away from their goal, when they heard it. It was the 20th of Last Seed, and late in the evening. A courier entered the building, his hair damp and his eyes bright, and took the spare seat at the bar with a loud cough. They paid him no mind. The barkeep, a balding Nord called Wilhelm, grinned widely at the sight of him and exclaimed, “Ingman!” Then he placed a pouch of coins and a tankard of ale on the worktop. “Septim for your thoughts.”

Ingman took a long drink and wiped away the droplets that had caught on his beard with his sleeve. “You won’t believe this one, Wilhelm,” he said, looking somewhat triumphant as he slammed the tankard back down on the top and leaned in close. Wilhelm stopped what he was doing and draped a cloth over his forearm, doing the same. “They say a dragon’s been sighted in Falkreath. Helgen was completely destroyed, and Ulfric Stormcloak managed to escape. He's on his way back to Windhelm as we speak.”

Mathieu choked on his drink.

Wilhelm rolled his eyes. “I have to say, Ingman, this is your most fanciful to date,” he chided, continuing to wipe down the worktop. “Dragons? The world’s gone mad.”

Ingman leaned back in his seat, spreading his hands wide. “Hey, is this the face of a Nord who’d lie to you?”

They didn’t bother finishing their meal.

“We need to leave,” Rayyndin said the moment they were in their room, reaching for his cloak and wrapping it hastily round his shoulders. “Now.”

Mathieu flopped onto the bed and buried his face in his hands, his fingers raking desperately through his hair in search of friction. “No,” he said, breathing heavily, “let me think.”

Rayyndin stopped and stared at him expectantly, his heart racing in his chest. He was racked with the urge to hit something hard, but with his remaining control he resisted it, knowing that Mathieu was right. They couldn't afford to be rash.

Eventually Mathieu got to his feet, saying nothing as he began gathering his things. He looked angry, with his grit jaw and furrowed brow, like he was just waiting for the world to fuck him over again, but he also looked tired. He took a long time before saying, “We'll stick with our original plan. We have no idea what Helgen's like.”

Deciding it needed no further explanation, he left the room without a single glance back and placed a few coins on the bar. “Thank you,” he said to Wilhelm quietly, avoiding the Nord's gaze, “but we will no longer be needing the room.” Then he pulled his hood over his head, drank the remainder of his ale – a drink he had decided earlier that he did not in fact enjoy – in one go, and left.

Rayyndin wanted to say something as they walked but could think of nothing worth saying. Mathieu marched on ahead, every muscle in his body screaming frustration and anger, and Rayyndin was fearful that breaking the silence would break also his cousin's remaining restraint. He knew they needed some time to stew things over. Everything then was too fresh and his thoughts were all over the place.

Night had long descended, and with it had come the icy cold that quickly numbed every inch of exposed skin. In some ways Rayyndin was grateful for the weather, for it meant he was incapable of thinking about little besides the biting chill that had settled in his flesh. He felt like he could count every single pinprick.

At some point in the early morning he realized that he had started crying. The tears froze almost instantly on his skin, leaving sticky trails of cold on his cheeks, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to wipe them off. _Dunmer don't cry,_ he wanted to say, only to find himself incapable of even that. It was probably something to do with the crawling of his gooseflesh, but he didn't think about that for long either. That could wait.

“She might not have reached Helgen, you know,” said Mathieu when Rayyndin suggested they stop briefly for some food the following day.

“I know,” said Rayyndin, avoiding eye contact as he shuffled around his knapsack for an apple.

Mathieu sighed. “There's actually a very small chance she's really... well. You know.”

“I _know_ ,” Rayyndin repeated, huffing irritatedly. He buckled the knapsack up again and slung it over his shoulder, taking an angry bite out of the apple. His stomach cramped uncomfortably. “Let's just carry on.”

They didn't stop for long at all.

With only a few hours of sleep each of night, the journey to Helgen was cut short by three days. When its walls rose into view the exhaustion that had been piling up vanished, and Rayyndin found his body succumbing to some sort of gravitational pull. He flung himself down the dirt track and by some violation of nature managed to keep himself upright, stumbling onwards blindly with his heart lodged in his throat. Mathieu called his name and ran after him, but he didn't listen. The pine trees on either side of him pressed down claustrophobically and he knew that beyond those wooden gates he'd be able to see Cassathra again.

He propelled himself through the archway, the heavy scent of smoke and charred flesh already bringing up bile in his throat. Ash clung like a blanket to every available surface, but the irony was lost on him as he stood helplessly in the centre of this ghost town and scanned the surroundings for anything that could lead him to his baby sister. Rapidly his remaining hope began to decline – there was nothing here but death. Death and fire.

“Rayyndin,” Mathieu panted once he caught up, his eyes growing in alarm as they took in everything around him. “I -”

His words faltered and he fell silent as he watched Rayyndin call out in frustration.

“ _Fuck,”_ Rayyndin screamed, staggering around with his face in his hands like a madman. “We were so _stupid,_ we never should have come here, by the Three, what were we thinking- it was so fucking _stupid,_ every stupid s'wit, n'wah, fetcher, bastard, _arsehole_ -”

“Rayyndin, _calm down_ , it's,” Mathieu wrapped his arms around his cousin's shoulders, attempting to steady him and hold him upright, “it's alright. This is the first place we've looked, she could be anywhere...”

“Exactly,” Rayyndin cried, scrunching his eyes into the balls of his hands, “she could be anywhere in bloody Nirn and we've no way of finding her and -”

“And she can handle _herself_ , Rayyndin.”

“Against a _dragon_?!” Rayyndin spat, pushing against Mathieu's shoulders and breathing heavily from his nose. His eyes were livid, his jaw wound tight. His chest heaved and Mathieu swallowed. “Look at this place, Mathieu. Only a dragon could have done this. And- oh, gods, nothing would've made it out alive... nothing...”

Mathieu followed Rayyndin's gaze to the trail of blackened, disfigured corpses, already coated in a thick layer of ash, and heaved a little, but still something nagged at him he couldn't place. Saying 'it's alright' again was fruitless. There was something off about it all but he didn't know how to put it into words. Until -

“By the Three,” he breathed, catching Rayyndin's attention as he bounded through the ash towards the source of his confusion. “I think -”

Disappointment blossomed in the pit of his stomach and he stopped, the words falling short on his tongue. “I...”

It wasn't Cassathra. The mess of dark hair was longer, the curls less concentrated, and the illusion of grey skin was little more than ash and malnutrition. The body was human.

Rayyndin came up beside him, staring down at the thing with an expression Mathieu couldn't name. Eventually Mathieu spoke. “I'm sorry, Rayyndin,” he said. “I thought -”

“I think she's alive,” said Rayyndin, pointing to her torso where Mathieu could just make out the slight expansion of a ribcage. Rayyndin was right, but barely. “Look.”

“B'vek,” Mathieu swore, crouching down and rolling the body onto her back. Her lips were parted and when Mathieu strained he could make out the hoarse crackling of her breath, or what was left of it, at least.

“Give me your flask,” he ordered, and Rayyndin complied, placing the leather container into Mathieu's open hand. He popped out the cork and hoisted the woman up against his leg, so as to avoid causing her to choke. Then he carefully adjusted the angle of her throat and let the cool fluid trickle down.

Nothing happened. When he felt she had had sufficient he gently lay her on the floor and positioned his hands over her sternum, one folded over the other.

“What are you doing, Mathieu?” Rayyndin asked as Mathieu started to pump, lowering himself onto his haunches to reach his eye level. “She has nothing to do with us.”

“No,” said Mathieu in between breaths, “but she's proof that Cassathra could be alive. And -” he grunted, “she might know something.”

Rayyndin sighed, watching as Mathieu struggled to drive the life back into this woman. Her body jerked and twitched beneath the force of his arms, but there was nothing to show that she would wake up. He wished they still had the healing potions they had set off with.

“Let me try something,” he said after Mathieu had continued to no avail, allowing his cousin a break as he leaned over the still motionless human. It had been years since he had needed a healing spell – 25, to be exact – but he felt he could remember enough of the basics. He lay a hand gently where Mathieu's had been before, waited until he felt the grating of air within her lungs, and willed his energy flow to focus in his fingertips. Magicka crackled between his digits like electricity, wild and loose, but with some effort he harnessed it into some sort of spell-like structure, and felt it surge from one flesh to another, sinking deep into her chest and making work what had fallen asleep.

When he could focus it no longer, he pulled back, watching as the remainder of that golden glow seeped into her skin, sparks of it dancing down her body to bruises and burns along her legs and arms, to the ligature marks on her wrists. A few seconds passed where Rayyndin lost all hope, when suddenly her chest began to heave and she violently choked up a runny black liquid, what looked like water and ash. She sobbed into the ground, shaking, and wiped the foul substance from her lips with a weak arm. The Dunmer exchanged a glance.

Eventually Rayyndin took the opportunity to crouch down and place a hand gently on her shoulder. The contact made her flinch and with a strangled, throaty noise she recoiled away, seemingly trying to crawl as she dug her cracked nails into the earth with the little strength she had left. Rayyndin gave Mathieu a dark look, one his cousin struggled to interpret, before making a second attempt, this time with a soft, ‘shushing’ sound. Eventually the human gave into her weakness, and she lay there, crying, whimpering in Imperial, and Mathieu’s heart broke at how pathetic she looked. It was almost enough to push Cassathra to the back of his mind.

Almost.

“You’re safe now,” he said in his best Common tongue. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

She choked out something he could barely understand, but he didn’t make any attempt to. Frankly, he had no idea how to handle such a person, let alone a human, and he didn’t want to make any more questions for himself when he knew he couldn’t have the answer.

It felt like hours that they waited for her to speak, but it could have been no longer than thirty minutes or so. Eventually Mathieu decided that it was getting too dark for them to set off again, and that they were in some definite need of sleep, so Rayyndin clumsily set up the tent they had bought from Riften and Mathieu gathered enough wood for a small fire. They sat cross legged, facing each other with the flames in between, but both pairs of eyes were fixed intently upon the woman. She lay still, possibly asleep. It was silent.

At some point during dusk she awoke and sat up, snivelling and wiping her arm across her nose with reddened, puffy eyes. Her cheeks were hollow, her sockets sunken and purple, and the only sound filling the air was that of the crackling fire. Mathieu’s head rose in surprise from the watery broth he was stirring, and Rayyndin staggered from the inside of the tent in a rush to see the moment they had been waiting for. Anticipation hung in the air but for what, they couldn’t say.

“Go on,” she spat bitterly after the tension had reached its peak, her voice hoarse and brittle, “what d’you want from me? Why are you here?” Her accent was Cyrodiilic and her Imperial fluent. Mathieu swallowed.

“We don’t mean you any harm,” he said eventually, pouring out a little of the broth into a bowl, “if that’s what you mean.”

Rayyndin sat down silently and started picking at the grass, seemingly engrossed by the ground. The woman nodded.

“Are there any others?” she asked, sniffing again.

Mathieu shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, “you were the only one we could find.”

Her fingers tightened around her knees and she rocked backwards slightly, jaw grit. Mathieu got the nagging sense that there was something they hadn’t noticed yet. Something about her, something off, that he couldn’t place. He brushed it away and continued.

“We do have a few questions we want to ask you,” he said, “but you can eat something first if you want. It’s not a lot, but it should keep you until you’re well enough to eat more.”

She nodded again, and he held out the bowl to her, but she didn’t take it. After a few moments of this Mathieu blinked at his cousin in confusion, when a rattling breath from the woman drew his attention back to her, and he could see that she had her eyes closed. She looked as if she was about to cry again.

“I’m blind,” she mumbled, so quiet he could barely hear her.

“What?”

“I’m _blind_ ,” she repeated harshly, seemingly close to tears again despite the anger in her watery voice. Mathieu spluttered something and moved to place the bowl in her lap, relieved that he didn’t spill any in his awkward surprise and shame, but still his hands felt like they needed to be doing something as his thoughts ran miles ahead of his body. “I’m sorry,” he gasped.

“Yeah, well,” she scoffed, holding the bowl shakily to her cracked lips, “it’s not your fault.”

The silence returned, this time even tenser than before, and Mathieu fidgeted nervously in an attempt to occupy his racing mind. He glanced at his cousin, hoping to gauge his reaction, but Rayyndin too was simply watching the woman with a frown and an expression Mathieu couldn’t name. She drank the liquid quietly, oblivious to the stares, before putting the bowl to her side and closing her eyes. This was something Mathieu regretted – though he felt guilty for it, some nagging, curious part of his brain was desperate to get a closer look at her eyes, milky and sightless as they were. The only blind people he had never known were temple elders, and while this woman could have been no older than twenty, he was desperate to know the cause of her… disability, as well as the billion other questions that plagued his head. Instead he sat there in a dumb silence, until the woman took it upon herself to break it. He blinked.

“There are two of you, right?” she asked, smacking her lips nervously. Out of habit Mathieu nodded, before he caught his mistake and said, “Yes.”

“And what are you?” she continued.

“Er, Dunmer. Dark Elves.”

“I know what Dunmer means,” she said, frowning, and Mathieu couldn’t help but apologize, even if he didn’t really feel that he had to.

“What are you?” he asked.

“Nord,” she replied, and though something about her shorter physique confused Mathieu slightly, he said nothing of it. Then she asked, “Can I have some water?” and Mathieu handed her his flask again, glad for the change of subject. She drank for a long time.

“I’m taking watch,” Mathieu told her matter-of-factly after they had finished their supper, glancing at Rayyndin’s back as his cousin silently slid into the tent, “and Rayyndin’s going to sleep, if you want to rest too. Although we don’t have a spare bedroll.”

“It’s fine,” she said, and Mathieu found himself still slightly put off by the fact he was unable to meet her gaze, “I’m a Nord. He needs the warmth more than I do.”

With that, she lay down, facing away from Mathieu, and curled in on herself in the foetal position. Mathieu stared at her back for what felt like ages, before he shook his head, dragged some debris over to their little camp for him to sit upon, and forced his thoughts to centre back on Cassathra. Guilt gnawed at him but he didn’t know why. Instead he focused on recalling the lines of Cassathra’s face, though he found it more difficult than he perhaps should. He remained this way until the sun rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long update! In terms of both the slightly overwhelming word count and the ridiculous amount of time it took to get it up there. I hope it was worth the wait. Life always turns out to be busier than expected.
> 
> As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome! Remember; I run a review-for-a-review system without judgement, so if you have a new story in need of some attention, feel free to mention it in your review and I will make sure to check it out. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
